The Human Division #11:

A Problem of Proportion

John Scalzi

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Begin Reading

Also by John Scalzi

About the Author

Copyright

The Human Division as a whole is dedicated to:

Yanni Kuznia and Brian Decker, two of my favorite people;

and

John Harris, for his wonderful cover art for this and other Old Man’s War books.

Additionally, this particular Episode is dedicated to:

Rena Watson Hawkins

Episode Eleven: A Problem of Proportion

Captain Sophia Coloma’s first thought at registering the missile bearing down on the Clarke was, This again. Her second was to yell at Helmsman Cabot for evasive action. Cabot responded admirably, slamming the ship into avoidance mode and launching the ship’s countermeasures. The Clarke groaned at the sudden change of vector; the artificial gravity indulged a moment where it felt as if the field would snap and every unsecured object on the Clarke would launch toward the top bulkheads at a couple hundred kilometers an hour.

The gravity held, the ship dove in physical space and the countermeasures dazzled the missile into missing its quarry. It blasted past the Clarke and immediately began searching for its target as it did.

“The missile is Acke make,” Cabot said, reading the data on his console. “The Clarke’s got its transmitter in memory. Unless they’ve changed it up, we can keep it confused.”

“Two more missiles launched and targeting,” Executive Officer Neva Balla said. “Impact in sixty-three seconds.”

“Same make,” Cabot said. “Jamming them now.”

“Which ship is shooting at us?” Coloma asked.

“It’s the smaller one,” Balla said.

“What’s the other one doing?” Coloma asked.

“Firing on the first ship,” Balla said.

Coloma pulled up a tactical image on her console. The smaller ship, a long needle with a bulbous engine compartment far aft and a smaller bulb forward, remained a mystery to the Clarke’s computer. The larger ship, however, resolved to the Nurimal, a frigate of Lalan manufacture.

A Conclave warship, in other words.

Damn it, Coloma thought. We fell right into the trap.

“These new missiles aren’t responding to jamming,” Cabot said.

“Evade,” Coloma said.

“They’re tracking our moves,” Cabot said. “They’re going to hit.”

“That frigate is moving its port beam guns,” Coloma said. “They’re swinging our way.”

The Conclave thought that other ship was us, Coloma thought. Fired on it, it fired back. When we showed up, it fired on us as a matter of defense.

Now the Nurimal knew who the real enemy was and wasn’t wasting any time dealing with it.

So much for diplomacy, Coloma thought. Next life, I’m getting a ship with guns.

The Nurimal fired its particle beam weapons. Focused, high-energy beams lanced forward and tunneled into their targets.

The missiles heading for the Clarke exploded kilometers out from the ship. The first missile, now wandering aimlessly nearly a hundred klicks from the Clarke, was vaporized mere seconds thereafter.

“That…was not what I was expecting,” Balla said.

The Nurimal swung its beam weapons around, focusing them on the third ship, lancing that ship’s engine pod. The ship’s engines shattered, severing from the ship proper. The forward portions of the ship went dark, power lost, and began spinning with the angular momentum gained by the force of the engine compartment eruption.

“Is it dead?” Coloma asked.

“It’s not firing at us anymore, at least,” said Cabot.

“I’ll take that,” Coloma said.

“The Clarke’s identified the other ship,” Balla said.

“It’s the Nurimal,” Coloma said. “I know.”

“Not that one, ma’am,” Balla said. “The one it just wrecked. It’s the Urse Damay. It’s an Easo corvette that was turned over to Conclave diplomatic service.”

“What the hell is it doing firing on us?” Cabot asked.

“And why is the Nurimal firing on it?” said Coloma.

“Captain,” Orapan Juntasa, the communications and alarm officer, said. “We’re being hailed by the Nurimal. The person hailing us says they are the captain.” Juntasa was silent for a moment, listening. Her eyes got wide.

“What is it?” Coloma asked.

“They say they want to surrender to us,” Juntasa said. “To you.”

Coloma was silent for a minute at this.

“Ma’am?” Juntasa said. “What do I tell the Nurimal?”

“Tell them we’ve received their message and to please wait,” Coloma said. She turned to Balla. “Get Ambassador Abumwe up here right now. She’s the reason we’re here in the first place. And bring Lieutenant Wilson, too. He’s actual military. I don’t know if I can accept a surrender. I’m pretty sure he can.”

Hafte Sorvalh was tall, tall even for a Lalan, and as such would have difficulty navigating the short and narrow corridors of the Clarke. As a courtesy to her, the negotiations for the surrender of the Nurimal were held in the Clarke shuttle bay. Sorvalh was accompanied by Puslan Fotew, captain of the Nurimal, who did not appear in the least bit pleased to be on the Clarke, and Muhtal Worl, Sorvalh’s assistant. On the human side were Coloma, Abumwe, Wilson and Hart Schmidt, whom Wilson had requested and Abumwe had acceded to. They were arrayed at a table hastily acquired from the officers mess. Chairs were provided for all; Wilson guessed they might be of slightly less utility for the Lalans, based on their physiology.

“We have an interesting situation before us,” Hafte Sorvalh said, to the humans. Her words were translated by a small machine she wore as a brooch. “One of you is the captain of this ship. One of you is the head of this ship’s diplomatic mission. One of you”—she nodded at Wilson—“is a member of the Colonial Union’s military. To whom shall my captain here surrender?”

Coloma and Abumwe looked over to Wilson, who nodded. “I am Lieutenant Wilson of the Colonial Defense Forces,” he said. “Captain Coloma and Ambassador Abumwe are members of the Colonial Union’s civil government, as is Mr. Schmidt here.” He nodded at his friend. “The Nurimal is a Conclave military ship, so we have decided that as a matter of protocol, I would be the person for whom it would be appropriate to surrender.”

“Only a lieutenant?” Sorvalh said. Wilson, who was not an expert on Lalan physiology, nevertheless suspected she was wearing an amused expression. “I’m afraid it might be a little embarrassing for my captain to surrender to someone of your rank.”

“I sympathize,” Wilson said, and then went off script. “And if I may, Ambassador Sorvalh—”

“Councillor Sorvalh would be more accurate, Lieutenant,” Sorvalh said.

“If I may, Councillor Sorvalh,” Wilson corrected, “I would ask why your captain seeks to surrender at all. The Nurimal clearly outmatches the Clarke militarily. If you wished it, you could blow us right out of the sky.”

“Which is precisely why I ordered Captain Fotew to surrender her vessel to you,” Sorvalh said. “To assure you that we pose not the smallest threat to you.”

Wilson glanced over to Captain Fotew, rigid and formal. The fact that she was ordered to surrender explained a lot, about both Fotew’s attitude at the moment and the relationship between Fotew and Sorvalh. Wilson could not see Captain Coloma accepting an order from Ambassador Abumwe to surrender her ship; there might be blood on the floor after such a request. “You could have made that point much more clear if you had not housed your diplomatic mission to us in a warship,” Wilson pointed out.

“Ah, but if we had done that, you would be dead,” Sorvalh said.

Fair point, Wilson thought. “The Urse Damay is a Conclave ship,” he said.

“It was,” Sorvalh said. “Technically, I suppose it still may be. Nevertheless, when it attacked your ship—and also the Nurimal—it was under the command of neither the Conclave nor its military, nor was it crewed by citizens of the Conclave.”

“What proof do you offer for this assertion?” Wilson asked.

“At the moment, none,” Sorvalh said. “As I have none to offer. That may come in the future, as these discussions progress. In the meantime, you have my word, whatever that will be worth to you at the moment.”

Wilson glanced over to Abumwe, who gave him a small nod. He turned to Captain Fotew. “With all due respect, Captain, I cannot accept your surrender,” he said. “The Colonial Union and the Conclave are not in a state of war, and your military actions, as best I can see, were at no point directed toward the Clarke specifically nor at the Colonial Union generally. Indeed, your actions and the actions of your crew saved the Clarke and the lives of its crew and passengers. So while I reject your surrender, I offer you my thanks.”

Fotew stood there a moment, blinking. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said, finally. “I accept your thanks and will share it with my crew.”

“Very well done,” Sorvalh said, to Wilson. She turned to Abumwe. “For a military officer, he’s not a bad diplomat.”

“He has his moments, Councillor,” Abumwe said.

“If I may, what are we doing about the Urse Damay?” Coloma said. “It’s damaged, but it’s not entirely dead. It still represents a threat to both our ships.”

Sorvalh nodded to Fotew, who addressed Coloma. “The Urse Damay had missile launchers bolted on to it, holding nine missiles,” she said. “Three of them were sent at you. Three of them were sent at us. The remaining three have our weapons trained on them. If they were fired, they would be destroyed before they were launched out of their tubes. That is if the Urse Damy had enough power to target either of our ships or fire the missiles at all.”

“Have you made contact with the ship?” Coloma asked.

“We ordered its surrender and offered to rescue its crew,” Fotew said. “We have heard nothing from it since our battle. We have done nothing else pending our surrender to you.”

“If Lieutenant Wilson had accepted our surrender, then it would have been you who would have to coordinate the rescue,” Sorvalh said.

“If there were someone still alive on that ship, they would have signaled us by now,” Fotew said. “Us or you. The Urse Damay is dead, Captain.”

Coloma quieted, dissatisfied.

“How will you explain this incident?” Abumwe asked Sorvalh.

“How do you mean?” Sorvalh replied.

“I mean each of our governments have agreed that this discussion of ours is not actually taking place,” Abumwe said. “If even a discussion is not taking place, I would imagine an actual military battle will be hard to explain.”

“The military battle will not be hard to handle politically,” Sorvalh said. “The surrender, however, would have been difficult to explain away. Another reason for us to be grateful of the politic choices of your Lieutenant Wilson here.”

“If you are so grateful, then perhaps you can give us the answer we came here to get,” Abumwe said.

“What answer is that?” Sorvalh said.

“Why the Conclave is targeting and attacking Colonial Union ships,” Abumwe said.

“How very interesting,” Sorvalh said. “Because we have the very same question for you, about our ships.”

“There have been sixteen ships gone missing in the last year,” Colonel Abel Rigney explained to Abumwe. He and Abumwe were in the office of Colonel Liz Egan, who sat with them at her office’s conference table. “Ten of them in the last four months.”

“What do you mean by ‘gone missing’?” Abumwe asked. “Destroyed?”

“No, just gone,” Rigney said. “As in, once they skipped they were never heard from again. No black boxes, no skip drones, no communication of any sort.”

“And no debris?” Abumwe asked.

“None that we could find, and no gas clouds of highly vaporized ships, either,” Egan said. “Nothing but space.”

Abumwe turned her attention back to Rigney. “These were Colonial Defense Forces ships?”

“No,” Rigney said. “Or more accurately, not anymore. The ships that have disappeared were all decommissioned former CDF ships, repurposed for civilian uses. Like the Clarke, your ship, was formerly a CDF corvette. Once a ship outlives its usefulness to the CDF, we sell them to individual colonies for local government services, or to commercial concerns who specialize in intercolonial shipping.”

“The fact that they were nonmilitary is why we originally didn’t notice,” Egan said. “Civilian and commercial ships sometimes go missing just as a matter of course. A skip is improperly inputted, or they’re prey for raiders or pirates, or they’re employed to carry a wildcat colony someplace a wildcat colony shouldn’t be and they get shot up. The Colonial Union tracks all legal shipping and travel in Colonial space, so we note when a ship is destroyed or goes missing. But we don’t necessarily note what kind of ship it is, or in this case was.”

“It wasn’t until some nerd handling ship registrations noted that a specific type of ship was going missing that we paid attention,” Rigney said. “And sure enough, he was right. All the ships on this list are decommissioned frigates or corvettes. All of them were decommissioned in the last five years. Most of them disappeared in systems near Conclave territory.”

Abumwe frowned. “That doesn’t sound like the Conclave’s way of doing things,” she said. “They won’t let us colonize anymore, but beyond that they haven’t recently been openly antagonistic towards the Colonial Union. They don’t need to be.”

“We agree,” Egan said. “But there are reasons for the Conclave to want to attack the Colonial Union. They are massively larger than we are, but we still nearly managed to destroy them not all that long ago.”

Abumwe nodded. She remembered the CDF destruction of the Conclave fleet over Roanoke Colony and how that pushed the entire Colonial Union to the brink of war with the much larger, much angrier alien confederation.

What saved the Colonial Union, ironically enough, had been the fact that the Conclave’s leader and founder, General Tarsem Gau, had managed to quell a rebellion and keep the Conclave intact—a not exactly small irony considering the CDF’s goal was to topple Gau.

“Gau certainly has reasons for wanting the Colonial Union out of the picture,” Abumwe said. “I’m not sure how making a few decommissioned former warships disappear will accomplish that.”

“We’re not sure about it ourselves,” Rigney said. “The ships are useless as warships now; we’ve removed all weapons and defense systems. The ships couldn’t have been confused with CDF ships still in service. Making them disappear does nothing to reduce our military capability at all.”

“There’s another possibility,” Egan said. “One I think is more likely, personally. And that is that the Conclave isn’t behind the disappearances at all. Someone else is, and trying to make it look like it’s the Conclave in the hopes of pushing them and us into another conflict.”

“All right,” Abumwe said. “Explain what this has to do with me.”

“We need to establish a back channel to the Conclave about this,” Rigney said. “If they are behind it, we need to tell them that we won’t tolerate it, in a way that doesn’t let our other enemies know where our military resources might become focused. If they aren’t behind it, then it’s to our mutual benefit to discover who is—again, as quietly as possible.”

“You’re getting the job because, to be blunt about it, you already know that someone or some group has been trying to sabotage the Colonial Union’s dealings with other species and governments,” Egan said. “We don’t need to read you in, and we know you and your people can keep your mouths shut.”

Abumwe gave a wry half smile. “I appreciate your candor,” she said.

“You are also good at what you do,” Egan said. “To be clear. But discretion is of particular value in this case.”

“I understand,” Abumwe said. “How do you want me to approach the task? I don’t have any direct contacts with the Conclave, but I know someone who might.”

“Your Lieutenant Wilson?” Egan said.

Abumwe nodded. “He knows John Perry personally,” she said, naming the former CDF major who took refuge with the Conclave after the events of Roanoke Colony and then took an alien trade fleet to Earth and informed that planet of their lopsided relationship with the Colonial Union. “It’s not a connection I’m keen on exploiting, but it’s one I can use if necessary.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Rigney said. “We have a direct line to one of General Gau’s inner circle. A councillor named Sorvalh.”

“How do we know her?” Abumwe asked.

“After the unpleasantness with Major Perry showing up over Earth with a Conclave trade fleet, General Gau decided it would be useful to have an official unofficial way for us to talk to his inner circle,” Egan said. “To avoid any unintentional unpleasantness.”

“If we tell her where to show up, she’ll be there,” Rigney said. “We just need to get you there.”

“And make sure that no one else knows you’re coming,” said Egan.

“We’re not attacking any of your ships,” Abumwe said, to Sorvalh.

“Curious,” Sorvalh said. “Because in the past several of your months, we have had twenty ships up and disappear.”

“Conclave military ships?” Abumwe asked.

“No,” Sorvalh said. “Mostly merchant ships and a few repurposed ships.”

“Go on,” Abumwe said.

“There’s not much more to say,” Sorvalh said. “All of them were lost in territory that borders Colonial Union space. All of them disappeared without evidence. Ships, gone. Crews, gone. Cargo, gone. Too few ships to constitute an action which merited a response. Too many to just chalk up to chance or fate.”

“And you’ve had none of these ships reappear,” Abumwe asked.

“There is one,” Sorvalh said. “It’s the Urse Damay.”

“You’re joking,” Wilson said.

“No, Lieutenant Wilson,” Sorvalh said, turning to him. “The Urse Damay was one of the first on the list to go, and one that gave us the greatest amount of worry. It’s a diplomatic ship, or was, and its disappearance was a possible act of war as far as we were concerned. But we didn’t pick up any chatter in our usual channels about it, and for something like this, we would.”

“Yet you still think we’re behind this,” Abumwe said.

“If we were certain, then you would have heard from us already, and not through a diplomatic back channel,” Sorvalh said. “We have our suspicions, but we also have no interest in starting a war with the Colonial Union over suspicions. Just as, obviously, you have no desire to start a war with us over your suspicions, either.”

“The Urse Damay being here should convince you that it’s not us who took it,” Coloma said. “It fired on us.”

“It fired on both of our ships,” Captain Fotew said. “And on ours first. We arrived here just before you did. It was here when we arrived.”

“If we had arrived first, we would have seen it as a Conclave diplomatic ship,” Coloma said. “It’s obvious that it was meant to lure the Clarke and then attack us.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Sorvalh said. “Another way is to have your tame, captured Conclave ship fake an attack on an unarmed diplomatic ship and use that as a propaganda tool. It’s not as if the Colonial Union is not above sacrificing a ship or a colony to whip up some righteous anger.”

Coloma stiffened at this; Abumwe reached over and took her arm to calm and caution her. “You’re not actually suggesting this is the case here.”

“I am not,” Sorvalh agreed. “I am pointing out that we both have more questions than answers at the moment. Our ship went missing. It’s shown up here. It’s attacked both of our ships. Who was the intended target is, at the moment, a trivial question because we both ended up as targets. The question we should be asking is, who is targeting us both? How did they know we would be here? And are they the same people who have caused your ships to disappear?”

Wilson turned back to Fotew. “You say that the Urse Damay is dead.”

“Incapacitated at the very least,” Fotew said. “And not a threat in any event.”

“Then I have a suggestion,” Wilson said.

“Please,” Sorvalh said.

“I think it might be time for a joint field trip,” Wilson said.

“Don’t do anything fancy,” Hart Schmidt said to Wilson. The two of them were in the Clarke shuttle bay. The Nurimal’s shuttle, with its pilot and two Conclave military, was waiting for Wilson to board. “Look around, see what you can find out, get out of there.”

“I want to know when it was you became my mother,” Wilson said.

“You keep doing crazy things,” Schmidt said. “And then you keep roping me into them with you.”

“Someone else can monitor me if you want,” Wilson said.

“Don’t be stupid, Harry,” Schmidt said. He checked Wilson’s combat suit a second time. “You’ve checked your oxygen supply.”

“It’s being constantly monitored by my BrainPal,” Wilson said. “Plus the combat suit is configured for a vacuum environment. Plus I can hold my breath for ten minutes at a time. Please, Hart. You’re my friend, but I’m going to have to kill you.”

“All right. Sorry,” Schmidt said. “I’ll be following you from the bridge. Keep your audio and visual circuits open. Coloma and Abumwe will be there, too, if you have any questions for them and vice versa.”

“Just who I want in my head,” Wilson said.

One of the Conclave soldiers, a Lalan, poked his head out of the shuttle and motioned to Wilson. “That’s my ride,” he said.

Schmidt peered at the soldier. “Watch out for these guys,” he said.

“They’re not going to kill me, Hart,” Wilson said. “That would look bad.”

“One day you’re going to be wrong about these things,” Schmidt said.

“When I am, hope that I’m very far away from you,” Wilson said. Schmidt grinned at this and headed back to the shuttle bay control room.

Wilson entered the shuttle. The pilot and one of the soldiers were Lalan, like Sorvalh and Captain Fotew. The other was a Fflict, a squat, hairy race. It motioned to Wilson to have a seat. He did and stowed his MP-35 beneath his feet.

“We have translation circuits built into our suits,” the Fflict said, in its own language, while a translation came through a speaker on its belt. “You can speak your language and we’ll get a translation through our audio feed.”

“Likewise,” Wilson said, and pointed to the speaker. “You can turn that off if you like. I’ll still be able to understand you just fine.”

“Good,” the Fflict said, and turned off the speaker. “I hate the way that thing makes me sound.” It held up a hand and contracted the appendages twice, in a greeting. “I’m Lieutenant Navill Werd.” It pointed toward the Lalans. “Pilot Urgrn Howel, Corporal Lesl Carn.”

“Lieutenant Harry Wilson,” Wilson said.

“Have you been in a vacuum environment before?” Werd asked.

“Once or twice,” Wilson said.

“Good,” Werd said. “Now, listen. This is a joint mission, but someone has to be in charge, and I’m going to propose that it’s me, on account that I’m already supposed to be in charge of these two, and it’s my shuttle besides. Any objection?”

Wilson grinned. “No, sir.”

“Wrong gender,” Werd said. “But your ‘ma’am’ doesn’t exactly work either, so you might as well keep calling me ‘sir.’ No need to make things complicated.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilson said.

“Right, let’s get this thing moving,” Werd said, then turned to nod at his pilot. The pilot zipped up the shuttle and signaled to the Clarke that they were ready to depart; the Clarke started the purge cycle for the bay. Corporal Carn eased himself into the co-pilot’s seat.

“This is my first time working with a human,” Werd said, to Wilson.

“How’s it going so far?” Wilson asked.

“Not bad,” Werd said. “You’re kind of ugly, though.”

“I get that a lot,” Wilson said.

“I bet you do,” Werd said. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Thanks,” Wilson said.

“But if you smell, I’m pushing you out an airlock,” Werd said.

“Got it,” Wilson said.

“Glad we’ve come to this understanding,” Werd said.

“The lieutenant is like this with everyone,” Corporal Carn said, looking back at Wilson. “It’s not just you.”

“It’s not my fault everyone else is hideous to look at,” Werd said. “You can’t all be gorgeous like me.”

“How do you even get through the day being as gorgeous as you are, sir?” Wilson asked.

“I really don’t know,” Werd said. “Just by being a beacon of hope and good looks, I suppose.”

“You see what I’m saying here,” Carn said.

“He’s just jealous,” Werd said. “And ugly.”

“You guys are a hoot,” Wilson said. “And here my friend Hart thought you might try to kill me.”

“Of course not,” Werd said. “We save that for the second mission.”

The shuttle backed out of the bay and headed to the Urse Damay.

“All right, who wants to tell me the weird thing about this ship?” Werd said, to no one in particular. The lieutenant’s voice came in through Wilson’s BrainPal; he, Werd and Carn were all in separate parts of the ship.

“The fact there’s not a single living thing on it?” Carn said.

“Close, but no,” Werd said.

“That’s not the weird thing?” Carn said. “If that’s not the weird thing, Lieutenant, what is?”

“The fact there’s no evidence that a single living thing was ever on it,” Wilson said.

“The human gets it,” Werd said. “This is the strangest damn thing I have ever seen.”

The three soldiers had carefully navigated themselves over to the tumbling front end of the Urse Damay. The shuttle pilot had matched the spin and rotation of the ship fragment, and the three traversed across by way of a guide line attached to a magnetic harpoon. Once they were over, the shuttle backed off to a less dangerous distance while continuing to match the tumble.

Inside, the tumble was enough to stick Wilson, Werd and Carn to the bulkheads at crazy angles to the ship’s internal layout. The three of them had to be careful when they walked; the open communication channel was occasionally punctuated by the very tall Corporal Carn cursing as he bumped into something.

The front end of the Urse Damay had been severed from its prime power source, but emergency power was still being drawn from local batteries; emergency lighting flooded the corridors with a dim but serviceable glow. The glow showed no indication that anyone had walked the corridors in the recent past. Wilson pulled open doors to living quarters, conference rooms and what appeared to be a mess hall, judging from the benches and what looked to be food preparation areas.

They were all empty and sterile.

“Is this ship programmed?” asked Carn. “Like a skip drone?”

“I saw the video replay of its battle with the Nurimal,” Werd said. “The Urse Damay was using tactics that suggest more than just programming, at least to me.”

“I agree with that,” Wilson said. “It sure looked like someone was here.”

“Maybe it’s remotely controlled,” Carn said.

“We’ve swept the local area,” Wilson said. “We didn’t find any drones or smaller ships. I’m sure Captain Fotew had the Nurimal do the same thing.”

“Then how did this ship fight with no one on it?” Carn asked.

“How do we feel about ghosts?” Werd said.

“I prefer my dead to stay dead,” Wilson said.

“The human gets it right again,” Werd said. “So we keep looking for something living on the ship.”

A few minutes later, Carn was on the open channel. He made a noise; after a second, Wilson’s BrainPal translated it to “uh.”

“What is it?” Werd asked.

“I think I found something,” Carn said.

“Is it alive?” Wilson asked.

“Maybe?” Carn said.

“Carn, you’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Werd said. Even through the translation, Wilson could hear the exasperation.

“I’m on the bridge,” Carn said. “There’s no one here. But there’s a screen that’s on.”

“All right,” Werd said. “So what?”

“So when I passed by the screen, words came up on it,” Carn said.

“What did they say?” Wilson asked.

“‘Come back,’” Carn said.

“I thought you said there was no one in the room with you,” Werd said.

“There’s not,” Carn said. “Hold on, there’s something new on the screen now. More words.”

“What’s it say this time?” Werd asked.

“‘Help me,’” Carn said.

“You said you had expertise with technology,” Werd said to Wilson, and pointed to the bridge screen, hovering at an off-kilter angle above them. “Make this thing work.”

Wilson grimaced and looked at the screen. The words on the screen were in Lalan; a visual overlay from his BrainPal translated the message. There was no keyboard or operating tool that Wilson could see. He reached up and tapped the screen; nothing. “How do you usually work your screens?” Wilson asked Werd. “Does the Conclave have some sort of standard access interface?”

“I lead people and shoot at things,” Werd said. “Access interfaces aren’t my thing.”

“We have a standard data transmission band,” Carn said. “Not the voice transmission band, but for other things.”

“Hart?” Wilson said.

“Getting that for you now,” Schmidt said, in his head.

“Look,” Carn said, pointing at the screen. “New words.”

You don’t need the data band, the words said in Lalan. I can hear you on the audio band. But I only understand the Lalan. My translation module is damaged.

“What language do you speak?” Wilson said, and ordered his BrainPal to translate in Lalan.

Easo, the words said.

Wilson queried his BrainPal, which had the language and began to unpack it. “Is that better?” he asked.

Yes, thank you, the words said.

“Who are you?” Wilson asked.

My name is Rayth Ablant.

“Are you the captain of the Urse Damay?” Wilson asked.

In a manner of speaking, yes.

“Why did you attack the Clarke and Nurimal?” Wilson asked.

I had no choice in the matter.

“Where is everyone?” asked Werd, who apparently had Easo as part of his translation database.

You mean, where is my crew.

“Yes,” Werd said.

I have none. It’s just me.

“Where are you?” Wilson asked.

That’s an interesting question, the words said.

“Are you on the ship?” Wilson asked.

I am the ship.

“I heard that correctly, right?” Carn said, after a minute. “I didn’t just get a bad translation, did I?”

“We’re asking the same question over here,” Schimdt said to Wilson, although he was the only one on the Urse Damay who could hear him.

“You are the ship,” Wilson repeated.

Yes.

“That’s not possible,” Werd said.

I wish you were right about that.

“Lieutenant Werd is right,” Wilson said. “None of us have been able to create truly intelligent machines.”

I never said I was a machine.

“This guy is making me irritated,” Werd said, to Wilson. “He’s speaking in riddles.”

“And he can hear you,” Wilson said, making a chopping motion: Werd, shut up. “Rayth Ablant, you’re going to need to explain yourself better for us. I don’t think any of us understand what you’re saying.”

It’s easier to show you.

“All right,” Wilson said. “Show me.”

Look behind you.

Wilson did. Behind him was a line of displays and a large, black cabinet. He turned back to the display.

Open it. Carefully.

Wilson did.

Hello.

“Oh, fuck me,” Wilson said.

“He’s a brain in a box,” Wilson said. “Literally a brain in a box. I opened up the cabinet and there’s a container in there with an Easo brain and nervous system laid out and connected to non-organic data fibers. There’s some sort of liquid surrounding the brain, which I suspect is keeping it oxygenated and fed. There’s an outtake tube that connects to what looks like a filtering mechanism, with another tube coming out the other end. It all gets recycled. It’s pretty impressive, as long as you forget that there’s an actual sentient being trapped in there.”

Wilson sat once more in the Clarke shuttle bay with Abumwe, Sorvalh, Muhtal Worl and Hart Schmidt. Captains Coloma and Fotew had returned to their posts. Abumwe and Coloma had seen Rayth Ablant from Wilson’s own point of view through his BrainPal feed, but Sorvalh wanted a report as well. Wilson offered her his BrainPal feed, but she refused, preferring, as she said, “a live recounting.”

“Who was this Ablant?” Sorvalh asked. “He had a life before…this.”

“He was a pilot on the Urse Damay, or so he says,” Wilson said. “You would be able to check that better than I would, Councillor.”

Sorvalh nodded to Worl, who made a note on his tablet computer. “He was part of a crew,” Sorvalh said. “The Urse Damay had a core crew of fifty and a diplomatic mission party of a dozen. What happened to them?”

“He says he doesn’t know,” Wilson said. “He says he had been asleep when the Urse Damay was first boarded and that he was knocked unconscious during the invasion. When he woke up he was like this. The people who did this to him didn’t tell him anything about the rest of his crew.”

“And who are they, the people who did this to him?” Sorvalh asked.

“He says he doesn’t know that, either,” Wilson said. “He says he’s never even technically spoken with them. They communicate with him through text. When he came to, they explained to him his job was to learn how to operate and navigate the Urse Damay on his own and that when he became proficient enough, he would be given a mission. This was that mission.”

“Do you believe he doesn’t know who these people are?” Sorvalh asked Wilson.

“Pardon my French, Councillor, but the guy is a fucking disembodied brain,” Wilson said. “It’s not like he has any powers of observation other than what they gave him. He says they didn’t even give him external inputs until after the ship skipped. He was flying blind for the first half of his mission. It’s entirely possible he knows nothing about these people but what they tell him, which is almost nothing.”

“You trust him,” Sorvalh said.

“I pity him,” Wilson said. “But I also think he’s credible. If he was a willing participant in this, they wouldn’t need to put his brain in a box to get him to do what they want him to do.”

“Tell the councillor what he was told his payment would be for this mission,” Abumwe said to Wilson.

“They told him that if he did this mission, they’d put his brain back into his body and send him home,” Wilson said. “His payment would be that he gets to be himself again.”

Sorvalh was silent about this for a moment, contemplating. Then she shifted her body weight and addressed Abumwe. “I would ask your indulgence for a moment while I say something terribly blunt.”

“Be my guest,” Abumwe said.

“It’s no great secret that the Colonial Union does things like this all the time,” Sorvalh said. She motioned at Wilson. “Your lieutenant here is the result of consciousness allegedly being transferred from one body to another genetically-modified one. He has a computer in his brain which connects to it using inorganic connections that are at least functionally similar to what’s connected to this poor creature. Your special forces soldiers are even more modified than he is. We know that you have some special forces soldiers who only tangentially resemble human beings. And we know that one penalty option your Colonial Defense Forces has for its malfeasant soldiers is to place their brains in a container for a period of time.”

Abumwe nodded and said, “Your point, Councillor.”

“My point, Ambassador, is that whoever did this to Rayth Ablant, their mode of operation is closer to that of the Colonial Union than it is to the Conclave,” Sorvalh said.

Abumwe nodded at Wilson again. “Tell her Rayth Ablant’s orders,” she said.

“He says his orders were to destroy any and all ships that presented themselves after he skipped,” Wilson said. “There was no discrimination on the part of his masters. They just pointed him at both of us and hoped for the best.”

“To what end?” Sorvalh said.

“Does it matter?” Abumwe said. “If we had been destroyed, the Colonial Union would have blamed you for the ambush. If you had been destroyed, the Conclave would have done the same to us. If we had both been destroyed, our two governments might already be at war. It’s as you said earlier, Councillor. At this point, the why is almost trivial, unless we know the who.”

“If your Lieutenant Wilson is correct, and this Rayth Ablant has no way of knowing for whom he works, there’s no way for us to know the who,” Sorvalh said. “All we have to go on are methods, and these methods are closer to yours than ours.”

“Rayth Ablant doesn’t know who he’s working for, but he’s not all we have,” Wilson said.

“Explain,” Sorvalh said.

“He’s a brain in a box,” Wilson repeated. “And the box can tell us a lot of things. Like whose technology it’s made out of. If there’s anything off the shelf about the thing, then that’s a lead to follow. Even if everything is custom-made, we can reverse-engineer it and maybe find out what it’s closest to. It’s better than what we have now, which is nothing.”

“What will that require?” Sorvalh asked.

“Well, for one thing, I want to take Rayth Ablant off the Urse Damay,” Wilson said. “The sooner the better. We have a ticking clock here.”

“I don’t understand,” Sorvalh said.

“One of the first things Rayth Ablant said to us was ‘help me,’” Wilson said. “He said that because his life support is running off the emergency power batteries. He’s got about eight hours left before he exhausts the power supply.”

“And you want to bring him here,” Sorvalh said, indicating the Clarke.

Wilson shook his head. “He’s on a Conclave ship,” he said. “Wherever the box comes from, it’s interfaced with a Conclave power network. Your power systems on the Nurimal more closely match those of the Urse Damay than ours do.” Wilson smiled. “And besides, you have the guns.”

Sorvalh returned the smile. “That we do, Lieutenant,” she said. “But I can’t imagine your boss here will be happy with the Conclave taking possession of that technology.”

“As long as you allow Lieutenant Wilson to closely examine the technology, I have no real objection,” Abumwe said. “Technology is his job. I trust him to learn what he needs to know.”

“Your bosses might not be happy with that, Ambassador Abumwe,” Sorvalh said.

“This may be true,” Abumwe said. “But that’s going to be my problem, not yours.”

“When can you get started?” Sorvalh asked Wilson.

“As soon as you requisition Werd and Carn to help me again,” Wilson said. “The brain box is not too large, fortunately, but the environment in there makes it difficult to move. And the shuttle for transport, obviously.”

Sorvalh nodded to her assistant, who reached again for his tablet computer. “Anything else?” she asked.

“I do have one request,” Wilson said.

“Name it,” Sorvalh said.

“I’d like you to promise me that once you get Rayth Ablant on your ship, that you connect him to your network,” Wilson said.

“And your reason for that is?” Sorvalh asked.

“This poor bastard has spent the last God knows how long running starship operation simulations. All his friends are dead and he’s been talking to no one except the sons of bitches who put him in that box,” Wilson said. “I think he’s probably lonely.”

Do you mind if I ask you a question, Rayth Ablant said to Wilson. Wilson had opened the data band so that Rayth Ablant could address him directly through his BrainPal rather than through the display. He kept the text interface, however, because it seemed right.

“Go right ahead,” Wilson said. He was busy extracting batteries from underneath the deck of the Urse Damay’s bridge and was beginning to sweat inside his vacuum-proof combat suit.

I’d like to know why you’re trying to help me.

“You asked for help,” Wilson said.

I also tried to blow up your ship with you in it.

“That was before you knew me,” Wilson said.

I’m sorry about that.

“I’m not going to tell you not to be sorry,” Wilson said, “but I can understand wanting to get your body back.”

That’s not going to happen now.

“Not through the assholes who did this to you, no,” Wilson said. “It’s not to say it couldn’t happen one day.”

It doesn’t seem likely.

“You’re saying that to a guy who is on his second body,” Wilson said. “I’m a little more optimistic about your plight than you are.” He hauled out a battery and placed it next to the several others he had extracted. Werd and Carn were elsewhere in the Urse Damay, pulling out batteries of their own. They would serve as the power source for Rayth Ablant’s brain box until they were all safely on the Nurimal. The trip from the Urse Damay to the Nurimal would be a matter of a couple of minutes, but Wilson was a big believer in overkill when the downside was someone ending up dead.

Thank you for this.

“Thank you for being a terrible shot,” Wilson said. He returned to his task.

You know humans have a bad reputation. Among the rest of us.

“I’ve heard,” Wilson said.

That you’re deceptive. That you’ll go against your contracts and treaties. That you’re terrified of all of us and your way of solving that problem is trying to destroy us all.

“But on the bright side, we all have lovely singing voices,” Wilson said.

I’m telling you this because I’m not seeing any of this in you.

“Humans are like anyone,” Wilson said. “Is every Easo a good person? Before the Conclave, did your government always do the best thing? Does the Conclave always do the best things now?”

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start a political discussion.

“You didn’t,” Wilson said. “I’m talking about the nature of sentient beings everywhere. We all have the entire range of possibilities inside of us. Personally, I don’t expect much out of other people. But for myself, whenever possible, I try not to be a complete prick.”

And that includes rescuing brains in boxes.

“Well, that includes rescuing a person,” Wilson said. “Who at the moment happens to be a brain in a box.” He hauled out another battery.

Lieutenant Werd came into the bridge, hauling his own supply of batteries, and set them down next to Wilson’s. They jostled in the slight pseudogravity offered by the ship’s tumbling. “How many more of these do you think you need?” he asked Wilson. “Dismantling an entire spaceship was not supposed to be in my job description.”

Wilson smiled and counted the batteries. “I think we have enough,” he said. “The box here is not that securely bolted into the deck, so we should be able to pull it out easily enough. Lifting things is in your job description, right?”

“Yes,” Werd said. “But setting things down costs extra.”

“Well, then,” Wilson said, “what we have to do now is make sure there’s no significant interruption in power flow to the box when we disconnect it from the Urse Damay’s system and attach it to the batteries.” He pointed to the box’s external outlets and the cords that snaked from them into the ship’s power system. “There’s probably a buffer unit in the box itself. I need to see how much energy it stores.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant Wilson,” Werd said. “This time, you’re in charge.”

“Thank you, Werd,” Wilson said, and opened the door to the box, again carefully, to avoid dislodging any part of the contents. “Between you, me and Carn, we’re the very model of cooperation that suggests all of our nations may yet live in peace and harmony.”

“Sarcasm is not exclusive to humans,” Werd said, “but I will admit you do a good job with it.”

Wilson said nothing to that. Instead he peered intently into the box.

“What is it?” Werd asked. Wilson motioned with his head that Werd should come closer. Werd did.

Wilson had separated a thick tangle of wires that plugged into the container holding Rayth Ablant’s brain and nervous system to get a look at where the power cords entered the box. Where they entered was indeed what looked like a power buffer, to store a minute or so of energy to assist with an orderly system shutdown in case of loss of power.

There was something else attached to the power buffer as well.

“Ah,” Werd said. Wilson nodded. “Carn,” Werd said, into his communication circuit.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Carn said.

“Lieutenant Wilson and I realized we’ve forgotten some tools, and we’re going to need to you to come help us with them,” Werd said. “Head back toward the shuttle. We’ll meet you there.”

“Sir?” Carn said, slightly confused.

“Acknowledge the order, Corporal,” Werd said.

“Order acknowledged,” Carn said. “On my way.”

Is everything all right.

“Everything is fine,” Wilson said, to Rayth Ablant. “I just realized some things in your internal structure here are going to be trickier to deal with than others. I need some different tools. We need to go back to the Nurimal for them. We’ll return momentarily.”

Makes sense to me. Don’t be gone too long. The ship is already beginning to shut down.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Wilson said. “It’s a promise.”

Rayth Ablant said nothing. Wilson and Werd made their way silently to the shuttle rendezvous; they and Carn made their way back to the shuttlecraft without an additional word.

When the shuttlecraft was on its way, Wilson opened a channel to the Clarke. “Hart,” he said, to Schmidt, “you need to get Abumwe over to Nurimal. Be there as soon as possible. We have a wrinkle. A really big damn wrinkle.” He cut the connection before Schmidt could respond and turned to Werd. “I need you to get your people to get me a schematic of the Urse Damay’s power systems. There are things I need to know. Right now.”

“We might not have them,” Werd said. “The Urse Damay’s not part of the Conclave military fleet.”

“Then I need one of your engineers to explain how Conclave power systems work. We can do that, at least, right?”

“I’m on it,” Werd said, and opened up a channel to the Nurimal.

Carn looked at the two of them, saw their expressions. “What happened?” he asked.

“We’re dealing with complete assholes,” Wilson said.

“I thought we knew that,” Carn said.

“No, this is new,” Wilson said. “There’s a bomb attached to the power supply on that box. The one Rayth Ablant is in. It looks like it’s set to go off if anything happens to the power going into the box. If we move Rayth Ablant, he’s going to die.”

“If we don’t move him, he’s going to die,” Carn said. “His power supply is running out.”

“And now you know why I said we’re dealing with complete assholes here,” Wilson said. He was silent the rest of the way to the Nurimal.

It’s just you this time.

“Yes,” Wilson said to Rayth Ablant.

That’s not a good sign, I think.

“I told you I would be back,” Wilson said.

You’re not going to lie to me, are you.

“You said you liked that I wasn’t like the humans you had heard about,” Wilson said. “So, no, I’m not going to lie to you. But you have to know that the truth is going to be hard to hear.”

I am a brain in a box. The truth is already hard to hear.

Wilson smiled. “That’s a very philosophical way of looking at things.”

When you’re a brain in a box, philosophy is what you have.

“There’s a bomb in your box,” Wilson said. “It’s attached to the power buffer. As far as I can tell, it has a monitor that tracks power input. The Urse Damay’s power system is integrated with its emergency power systems so that when the first goes down, the second is already running and there’s no interruption of power to critical systems, including your box. But if we remove your box from the system entirely, the monitor is going to register it, and the bomb will go off.”

It would kill me.

“Yes,” Wilson said. “Since you asked me not to lie, I’ll tell you I suspect the real point of the bomb is to make sure the technology of that box you’re in isn’t taken and examined. Your death is an incidental result of that.”

On second thought, maybe you can lie to me a little.

“Sorry,” Wilson said.

Is there any way to remove me from the box?

“Not that I can see,” Wilson said. “At least, not in a way that keeps you alive. The box is, if I may say so, an impressive piece of engineering. If I had more time, I could reverse-engineer the thing and tell you how it works. I don’t have that time. I could take you out of the box—the part that’s actually you—but I couldn’t just then take that part and hook it up a battery. The box is an integrated system. You can’t survive without it.”

I’m not going to survive long in it, either.

“I can reattach the batteries we’ve removed from the system,” Wilson said. “It can buy us some more time.”

Us?

“I’m here,” Wilson said. “I can keep working on this. There’s probably something I’ve missed.”

If you tinker with the bomb, then there’s a chance you’ll set it off.

“Yes,” Wilson said.

And when the power goes out, the bomb will explode anyway.

“I imagine the bomb will use the energy in the buffer to set itself off, yes,” Wilson said.

Do you dismantle bombs on a regular basis? Is this your specialty?

“I do technology research and development. This is up my alley,” Wilson said.

I think this is you lying to me a little.

“I think I might be able to save you,” Wilson said.

Why do you want to save me?

“You don’t deserve to die like this,” Wilson said. “As an afterthought. As a brain in a box. As less than fully yourself.”

You said yourself this box is an impressive piece of technology. It looks like whoever did this took some effort to make sure it couldn’t be taken. I don’t want to insult you, but given that you’ve had only a very little amount of time with this box, do you really think you’re going to find some way to outwit it and save me?

“I’m good at what I do,” Wilson said.

If you were that good, you wouldn’t be here. No offense.

“I’d like to try,” Wilson said.

I would like you to try, if it didn’t mean you possibly dying. One of us dying seems inevitable at this point. Both of us dying seems avoidable.

“You asked us to help you,” Wilson reminded Rayth Ablant.

You did. You tried. And even right now, if you wanted to keep trying, it’s clear I couldn’t stop you. But when I asked you to help, you helped. Now I am asking you to stop.

“All right,” Wilson said, after a moment.

Thank you.

“What else can I do for you?” Wilson asked. “Do you have friends or family that you want us to contact? Do you have messages for anyone I can send for you?”

I have no real family. Most of my friends were on the Urse Damay. Most of the people I know are already gone. I have no friends left.

“That’s not entirely true,” Wilson said.

Are you volunteering yourself?

“I’d be happy if you considered me your friend,” Wilson said.

I did try to kill you.

“That was before you knew me,” Wilson repeated. “And now that you do, you’ve made it clear you won’t let me die if you can help it. I think that makes up for your earlier indiscretions.”

If you are my friend, then I have a request.

“Name it,” Wilson said.

You are a soldier. You’ve killed before.

“It’s not a point of pride,” Wilson said. “But yes.”

I’m going to die because people who don’t care about me have used me and then thrown me away. I’d prefer to leave on my own terms.

“You want me to help you,” Wilson said.

If you can. I’m not asking you to do it yourself. If this box is as sensitive as you say it is, if I die, the bomb could go off. I don’t want you anywhere near when it does. But I think you could find another way.

“I imagine I could,” Wilson said. “Or at the very least I could try.”

For your trouble, let me offer you this.

There was a data ping on Wilson’s BrainPal: an encrypted file, in a format he wasn’t familiar with.

When I had completed my mission—when I had killed your ship and the Conclave ship—I was to feed this into the ship’s guidance system. It’s coordinates for my return trip. Maybe you’ll find whoever’s behind this there.

“Thank you,” Wilson said. “That’s incredibly helpful.”

When you find them, blow them up a little for me.

Wilson grinned. “You got it,” he said.

There’s not much time before the emergency power is entirely used up.

“I’ll have to leave you,” Wilson said. “Which means that no matter what happens I’m not coming back.”

I wouldn’t want you here no matter what happens. You’ll stay in contact with me?

“Yes, of course,” Wilson said.

Then you should go now. And hurry, because there’s not a lot of time left.

“This isn’t going to be a popular sentiment, but he’s going to die anyway,” said Captain Fotew. “We don’t have to expend the effort.”

“Are you suddenly on a budget, Captain?” Wilson asked. “Can the Conclave no longer afford a missile or a particle beam?” They were on the bridge of the Nurimal, along with Abumwe and Sorvalh.

“I said it wouldn’t be a popular sentiment,” Fotew said. “But someone ought to point it out, at least.”

“Rayth Ablant has given us vital information about the whereabouts of the people directing him,” Wilson said, and pointed toward the bridge’s communications and science station, where the science officer was already busily attempting to crack the encryption on the orders. “He’s been cooperative with us since our engagement with his ship.”

“It’s not as if he had much of a choice in that,” Fotew said.

“Of course he had a choice,” Wilson said. “If he hadn’t signaled to Corporal Carn, we wouldn’t know he was there. We wouldn’t know that some organization out there is taking the Conclave’s missing ships and turning them into glorified armed drones. We wouldn’t know that whoever this group is, they’re a threat to both the Conclave and the Colonial Union equally. And we wouldn’t know that neither of our governments is engaging in a stealth war with the other.”

“We still don’t know that last one, Lieutenant Wilson,” Sorvalh said. “Because we still don’t know the who. We still don’t know the players in this game.”

“Not yet,” Wilson said, motioning back to the science station. “But depending how good your code cracker is over there, this may be a temporary problem. And for the moment, at least, our governments are sharing information, since you’ve gotten that information from me.”

“But this is a problem of proportion, isn’t it?” Sorvalh said. “Is what we learn from you going to be worth everything we’ve expended to learn it? Is what we lose by granting Rayth Ablant his death more than we gain by, for example, what remains of his box when the explosion is over? There’s still a lot we could learn from the debris.”

Wilson looked over to Abumwe pleadingly. “Councillor,” Abumwe said, “not too long ago you chose to surrender your vessel to us. Lieutenant Wilson here refused your surrender. You praised him for his thinking then. Consider his thinking now.”

“Consider his thinking?” Sorvalh said, to Abumwe. “Or give him a decision on credit, because of a presumed debt to him?”

“I would prefer the first,” Abumwe said. “I would take the second, however.”

Sorvalh smiled at this, looked over to Wilson and then to Fotew. “Captain?”

“I think it’s a waste,” Fotew said. “But it’s your call to make, Councillor.”

“Prepare a missile,” Sorvalh said. Captain Fotew turned to do her bidding; Sorvalh turned her attention back to Wilson. “You used your credit with me, Lieutenant,” she said. “Let’s hope that in the future you don’t have cause to wish you had spent it on something else.”

Wilson nodded and opened up a channel to the Urse Damay. “Rayth Ablant,” he said.

I am here, came back the text.

“I’ve gotten you what you wanted,” Wilson said.

Just in time. I am down to the last 2 percent of my power.

“Missile prepped and ready for launch,” Captain Fotew said, to Sorvalh. Sorvalh nodded to Wilson.

“Just tell me when you want it,” Wilson said.

Now is good.

Wilson nodded to Fotew. “Fire,” she said, to her weapons station.

“On its way,” Wilson said.

Thank you for everything, Lieutenant Wilson.

“Glad to,” Wilson said.

I’ll miss you.

“Likewise,” Wilson said.

There was no response.

“We’ve cracked the order,” the science officer said.

“Tell us,” Sorvalh said.

The science officer looked at the humans on the bridge and then Captain Fortew. “Ma’am?” she said.

“You have your orders,” Fotew said.

“The coordinates for the return flight of the Urse Damay are in this system,” the science officer said. “They resolve under the surface of the local star. If it came out of skip there, it would have been destroyed instantly.”

“Your friend was never going home, Lieutenant Wilson,” Sorvalh said.

“Missile has reached the Urse Damay,” Fotew said, looking at her bridge display. “Direct hit.”

“I’d like to think he just got there on his own, Councillor,” Wilson said.

He walked off the bridge of the Nurimal and headed toward the shuttle bay, alone.

Also by John Scalzi

Old Man’s War

The Ghost Brigades

The Android’s Dream

The Last Colony

Zoe’s Tale

Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded

Fuzzy Nation

Redshirts

Edited by John Scalzi

Metatropolis

About the Author

JOHN SCALZI is the author of several SF novels including the bestselling Old Man’s War and its sequels, and the New York Times bestsellers Fuzzy Nation and Redshirts. He is a winner of science fiction’s John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and he won the Hugo Award for Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded, a collection of essays from his wildly popular blog Whatever (whatever.scalzi.com). He lives in Ohio with his wife and daughter.

E-book Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

HUMAN DIVISION #11: A PROBLEM OF PROPORTION

Copyright © 2013 by John Scalzi

All rights reserved.

Cover art by John Harris

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

e-ISBN: 978-1-4668-3060-8

The Human Division

John Scalzi’s stirring new novel in the universe of his bestselling Old Man’s War

New e-episodes will appear every Tuesday from January 15 to April 9, 2013, on all your favorite e-book sites. Don’t miss a single one:

January 15: The Human Division #1: The B-Team

January 22: The Human Division #2: Walk the Plank

January 29: The Human Division #3: We Only Need the Heads

February 5: The Human Division #4: A Voice in the Wilderness

February 12: The Human Division #5: Tales from the Clarke

February 19: The Human Division #6: The Back Channel

February 26: The Human Division #7: The Dog King

March 5: The Human Division #8: The Sound of Rebellion

March 12: The Human Division #9: The Observers

March 19: The Human Division #10: This Must Be the Place

March 26: The Human Division #11: A Problem of Proportion

April 2: The Human Division #12: The Gentle Art of Cracking Heads

April 9: The Human Division #13: Earth Below, Sky Above

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Contents

Begin Reading

Also by John Scalzi

About the Author

Copyright